


amending webs

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [97]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Ashen-Pale Vacillation, Background Relationships, F/F, Fan Offspring, Illustrated, Minor Sollux Captor/Karkat Vantas, Original Character(s), Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: “This isn’t a good idea.” you mutter.“As opposed to the other ‘brilliant’ ideas you’ve had lately?” Sollux asks.Terezi Pyrope decides to get her shit together. Or rather, Sollux makes Terezi get her shit together and everything else falls into place.Takes place after "a bright summer under the sun".





	1. carrying hands

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all thought I was dead, huh? Fools! Turns out that not even cancer can stop me! :D -- badAquatic, 7/17/19

**== >Terezi: Go to the library **

“This isn’t a good idea.” you mutter.

“As opposed to the other ‘brilliant’ ideas you’ve had lately?” Sollux asks.

You’re standing, or more accurately, _corralled_ in the hallway by your brother. On the wall next to you is a door leading into one of the New Jack Central Library’s many community rooms. Further down the hall are more doors leading into places that don’t interest. What your main interest is escape but that’s impossible. Sollux is blocking the entryway, letting Suxxor walk about in the hall. The kit stares at the posters on the ‘Local Happenings’ board before wandering over to the doorway of the children’s section with its colorful cardboard displays.

“I don’t belong here.” you restate for what feels like the tenth time today. “I’m not… _like_ them.”

Sollux folds his arms in an all too familiar and stubborn manner, no doubt inherited from the Pyrope side of the family.

“Compared to you imploding your pale quad, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” he asks.

Sollux doesn’t argue so much as he cuts to the quick with cold statements. Kankri had hemmed and hawed about getting you into some sort of ‘help’. He had initially phrased it as you “getting out more” and away from the “elements” that brought on “the mess” with Karkat. (Everyone in your social circle is calling it that now—“the mess” you made with Vriska, which is accurate to some degree). Kankri made his desire politely known, but Sollux is not Kankri. There’s no debate with him. Your younger brother preferred a more habitual solution and strong-armed you into the situation you’re in right now. 

“You have no idea.” You grunt. You look at the community room door with its foreboding thick wood and frosted glass. Even with the barrier you can pick up the faint smell and taste of the early arrivals within.

“There’s no trolls.” You conclude.

Sollux rolls his eyes though the effect is lost in the blue-red haze of his mutated eyes. “You can’t _really_ tell that.”

“You don’t know.” Grandma Redglare would be embarrassed at the feebleness of your argument.

Sollux sighs but it’s not without compassion. He closes the gap between you and places a hand on your shoulder. It’s jarring to feel his warm hand on your cold shoulder when you’re so used to the opposite. _You_ were the one that kept him from crying too loud when your father was in one of his bad moods. _You_ were the one that comforted him when he had the flu, and your mother was working overtime.

When did your lives invert like this?

“You’ve done _way_ more reckless things, Rez,” he says, “Why’s this a big deal?”

Your stomach is queasy, but you know it’s not from questionable food or unboiled tap water but nerves. The answer to Sollux’s query is bobbing around in the roiling surface of your gut: _I can’t talk to them._ Your social circles are like a snake eating its own tail, made of your family and your family’s friends and those emotionally and literally incestuous pairings that come with it. You barely spoke to classmates outside of your neighborhood and vice versa, already placed in that special invisible category of being disabled, a troll, poor, and female which made you not worth anyone’s time. In the workspace, its only courtesy and begged favors on the parts of upper management. Aside from the other interns, you doubt anyone knows your name. Hell, you don’t even know _their_ names.

Your long silence answers Sollux’s question, as he continues, “You’ve played RPGs. So why is talking like this difficult?”

 _Because I’m not playing a character!,_ you want to say, _Because I have to be_ myself _!_

You’re not pretending to be Vriska, full of mischief and confidence or being a hapless disabled troll so you’ll go unnoticed. Once you cross the threshold of that community room, you have to be _Terezi_ and that notion…shit, you don’t want to think about it. Then you actually _might_ barf.

Sollux’s odor shifts and you’re glad for the aromatic distraction. His face turns into a haze of concerned turquoise and the shade of heavy thinking (which is a color shade you can’t quite describe yet but have pegged it somewhere between keppel and light sea green). He opens his mouth and you hope to the gods your brother has something great to say--something so invigorating and bold that you’ll fearlessly storm into the community room.

Unfortunately, his words are not for you. The yellowblood turns around and looks at the children’s room entryway.

“ _Suxxor_!” Sollux yells, “The sign says ‘take one’!”

Your yellowblooded nephew is standing at a cardboard display of Carapace Willy Wonka and Troll Charlie. Troll Charlie slides down a chocolate river while Carapace Willy Wonka states that _Reading is scrumdiddlyumptious!_. The candy mogul carapace is pointing to a dish of cheap candy which is for _Any kid who loves to read! (Please take only one)._

Suxxor has taken to stuffing his pockets with handfuls of knockoffs M&M’s mini-bags like Crockercorp is going out of business tomorrow.

“But the candy’s for ‘any kid’, and I’m ‘any kid’!” Suxxor insists. 

“Put them back!” Sollux orders.

“No!” Suxxor bolts out of the entry, running into the rest of the library.

“Gods _damn_ it, Suxxor! I’m not explaining to your mother why your pockets are coated in chocolate again!” Sollux yells and runs after his son.

You can’t say you’re surprised Sollux left you alone in the hallway. It was only a matter of time before Suxxor distracted him with his usual brand of nonsense. Having children underfoot has placed made all adult conversations on a timer to the next interruption.

You look back at the door’s frosted glass and then the unblocked exit.

It wouldn’t be hard to duck out. The world won’t end if you show up a few minutes late. Or not at all. If anything, it’d be weird if you showed up _early_. They could still be setting up for the meeting. Then again, Sollux is walking through the library on a quest to retrieve his wayward offspring and if he finds you, he’ll demand what in the fuck you’re doing. And he might get angry. Shit, you hate dealing with Sollux when he’s angry..

The door swings open and you jump back. You spend so much time in your head, you forget that there are other people in the world whose lives don’t orbit around your personal dramas.

“Oh, hello! Are you lost?” the voice at the door says. They smell human and radiate a friendly warmth, like the late afternoon sun.

“I wish.” You mutter.

The human woman tilts her head. “What was that?”

“Uh, nothing.” You clear your throat and curse her timing. So much for a quick escape. “Is this the…support group? I got, I mean, my brother found out there was one here every Saturday, so I just…came to see. Well. Not see, but…”

Shit, your mind’s gone blank. What were you even talking about? You wish you were doing some mindless job at the office, like sorting case files about copyright infringement or copying long, graphic memoranda regarding E. coli outbreaks at Carlos Maracas.

“It’s alright.” the woman says, gently. Now she’s leaking sympathy like a poorly corked perfume bottle. “You can come right in.”

You only enter the room to avoid further embarrassment. The door closes behind you with such finality that it may as well be a cell door. You quickly sniff to get a quick summary of the area as your senses will allow: two trolls in the back but they’re spaced far apart and not interacting, four humans, three carapaces, and an iguana. A human and two carapaces are talking in that stutter-stop pace that acquaintances do when they’re getting down the ‘rhythm’ of a proper conversation. The lone iguana and one carapace are talking amicably, updating each other with life’s little monotonies—how is work, how is your baby, etc.

There are more people than you thought there would be.

Its also not what you expect. When Kankri had proposed you attend a ‘support group’, you balked. You didn’t want to sit in a circle, wailing about the world and airing out your tears and miseries so it doesn’t fester into a mental illness. You don’t want to talk about your life with your family and friends, and you _definitely_ don’t want to do it with strangers.

This is…different.

The human woman—who introduces herself as Noel—brings out board games and arranges them on the long tables in the center of the room. You usually don’t bother with board games not just because of the simplicity but the mishmash of multiple colors and letters can be nauseating after a while. Even you need a break after a long day of navigating the colorful and mayhem filled world.

Noel’s games are…different, though. Everything has a tactile nature to it—boards with grooves, magnets, and large print to make it accessible. It’s still too easy but the point here is communication, not competition. Your first conversation is not about blindness at all, but how many different versions of Monopoly there are. Noel has the most obscure versions: Bass Fishing Edition, Best Buy Edition, QVC Edition, Gamblignant Moon Edition just to name a few.

“Of all the things to be lost during the destruction of two planets, why wasn’t the blight that is Monopoly extinguished?” you mutter.

You were mostly talking to yourself, but it gets a laugh out of one of the trolls. “Monopoly is a universal constant.” they say.

Out of morbid curiosity, you select Monopoly QVC Edition and play a round with the troll who spoke to you, a carapace, a human, and the iguana. The game is still tedious in its set-up and execution, but the tactile and magnetic aids are…nice. Its relaxing to play a game without having to strain your senses like you do every waking hour just so you can function like a normal troll. You don’t have to constantly smell and lick things to get a sense of what piece is what and where it’s supposed to be. You don’t have to worry about your turn taking too long because everyone is low vision and moving takes time.

You don’t have to keep up with them. You’re all on the same playing field and you haven’t realized until just this moment how foreign that is. 

Conversation is still sparse between your co-players though. You all only have one thing in common and there’s an unwritten social etiquette about how to discuss it. No one knows how to properly address it…so the troll just blunders right into it.

“You know what’s a confusing color?” the troll says, “Purple.”

The comment catches you off-guard, so it takes a few minutes for your brain to register it and answer. “You think purple’s complicated too?” you ask.

The troll nods. “Yeah,” they say, “it’s hard for me to get it exactly right since my eyes are shit. Like, is it red or is it blue? And then some pigments make it more red than regular purple…” They shake their head, “It’s just so confusing.”

That brings a smile to your face. “Don’t get me _started_ on indigo.” You chuckle.

This is…fine. You guess.

You are a little sad when the session ends and the group has to leave the community room so the next function can come in. You say your goodbyes and leave the community room, exiting into the hall. Those who have met before linger and talk casually while others wander off for elsewhere.

Sollux and Suxxor are waiting for you at the end of the hall. Suxxor’s pockets have been emptied of candy and he’s grumpily taken out a book, as part of Sollux and Eridan’s monumental effort to encourage him to read.

Sollux is wearing his usual shit-eating grin. “So, was it a total nightmare?”

“It was weird.” You acquiesce, because when Sollux has that expression on his face you’d rather not admit he was right.

Sollux doesn’t answer but the obnoxious smirk doesn’t disappear. Even when you return to the car and drive home, he’s radiating smugness. Suxxor is quiet for the trip, ignoring the library book and playing with Sollux’s iHusk. You have no idea how a young kit can already manage electronics when Kempie still struggles to dial the house phone, but you blame his Captor genes.

“Sollux, this is great and everything but don’t you think I should talk to Karkat?” you ask, “It’s been a week and we’re still, well...”

Shitty. Things are still _incredibly_ shitty between Karkat and you. So shitty that Karkat’s carmine rage has petered out into a charcoal-wash of absolute apathy. You can sustain Karkat’s anger or disappointment, but his cold neutrality has opened a different wound altogether. Karkat will still speak to Kankri and treat Kempie and Astrid with awkward warmth but he won’t even look in your direction. Not even a glance or acknowledgement. It’s like you don’t exist anymore; as if he’s mentally banished you to another dimension and you’re just a ghost-image that only appears from sleep paralysis or pareidolia.

It…hurts. No, ‘hurt’ doesn’t even describe it. Its _cuts,_ like an icy wind running through paper clothes. There’s no method to keep warm in the face of such inhospitality.

In many ways, Karkat’s anger has frozen not only your relationship but _everything_. Since the implosion of your pale quadrant, you’ve avoided dealing with the entire DynamiCHEM-related mess. You haven’t told your boss about the information you’ve gathered. You haven’t spoken with the journalist. You still haven’t heard from Vriska. The irons you had in the fire are colder than Feferi’s blood and the fire’s been snuffed out with ice water.

Sollux doesn’t answer. His eyes are on the road, watching the steady flow of tourism-related traffic. You’re surprised people still want to come to New Jack City when a year ago sensationalist news outlets called it “the greatest cesspit of crime in Canzia”. You guess a little thing like a turf war amongst the poor wasn’t going to ruin some people’s preplanned vacations.

“ _Sollux_.” You usually don’t prod him in the presence of Suxxor but if it were up to your brother, he wouldn’t have this conversation at all.

“What do you want me to say, Terezi?” Sollux sighs, “I can’t force Karkat to talk you. Especially not right now.”

“What’s wrong with ‘right now’?”

Sollux pauses and then gives a wishy-washy gesture. “Things are a mess. What else is new?”

“What kind of mess?” Your brother hesitates and now you know to dig your heels in. “What’s going _on_ , Sollux? Is everything okay?”

“ _Terezi._ ” The car stops at a light as tourists bumble on foot, with their eyes in guidebooks or on their phones instead of the road. Gods, you hate downtown New Jack. The flow of living traffic moves from the hotels on the edge of Carapace Heights and toward the Strip’s offering of casino-based entertainment.

Sollux leans away from the steering wheel, giving you the full glare of his mutated eyes. “ _First off_ , you can’t seriously think everything would be okay after”—he looks to the backseat to make sure Suxxor is still playing on the iHusk before turning back to you—“ _everything_ , alright? This isn’t the time to bother him.”

 _It’s not bothering,_ you want to argue but this isn’t an area for debate.

The traffic breaks up and the car moves ahead, exiting North New Jack and moving down Interstate 36. With most tourists packed into downtown hotels, traffic on the bridge is flowing a lot easier this year. You watch the choppy waters of the bay, with the occasional industrial ACV bringing shipping containers to the waterport or yachts chauffeuring midday drunk vacationers. With the WMS and Dockside crisis, the waterport is experiencing more sea traffic than expected. The wait times must be a nightmare.

You wonder if Vriska will have to wait for hours just trying to schedule a flight back to New Jack. Or if she’ll come back at all.

Shit, you didn’t want to think about Vriska. Now whatever good vibes you got at the support group have evaporated. You go back to focusing on your brother and whatever secret he’s keeping from you. You wait until you’re back at the park and in front of your trailer.

You touch your brother’s arm. “Sollux.” you say, “ _Please_.”

Sollux hesitates to turn you away. You’re not sure if its because of brotherly instincts or the completely hopeless look on your face. “Terezi…” he sighs.

The backdoor opens and Suxxor exits the car. The yellowblood runs toward your trailer, where the front door is open in the hopes of cooling the house in the lingering afternoon heat.

“Suxxor, get back here! We’re not staying!” Sollux yells, but his son has already disappeared inside. Sollux groans, “Swear to gods, that kid is gonna have me completely grey before he even hits puperty.”

“We both know you’d just use that as an excuse to dye your hair blue and red.”

Sollux’s face pinches into a smile but he’s still wound up tight. Then he exhales and almost sags into the car seat.

“Fuck it.” Sollux grunts, “You’re going to find out sooner or later.” He rubs his face before lolling his head toward you, finally relenting his secrecy and all its tensions. You have no idea how your brother manages to be so wound up and not have experienced several aneurysms. “Vriska’s back, so Karkat’s having a shittier time than usual cause of, well, _her._ ”

The words float over you, circling above your skull and not making an impact. _Vriska’s back,_ they say but your brain doesn’t register it. It recognizes the words, analyzes its meaning, but can’t parse out a proper reaction. The information rubs against your skin, sinking through the flesh and touching your skull. _Vriska’s back!_ they announce but there’s no joy to be found in those words.

“Oh.” you say. You straighten your shoulders and play this off like it’s not a big fucking deal.

Because its not.

Its just Vriska.

“That it?” you say with an unintended huff.

“Yeah...” Sollux’s voice is calm but the tension has turned to his body. He looks like an animal feeling the earthquake in his paws before the machines detect a single vibration.

“That bitch.” You growl. You open the door, but it won’t budge. You jiggle the handle but red-blue psionics snap at your fingers. You look at your brother. “ _Seriously_?”

“Yeah. Seriously.” Sollux says. You growl but Sollux speaks over you, like you’re a child arguing against bedtime. “TZ, think. What happened the last time you got all hyped up by your feelings and ran off?”

You glare murder but you do remember it, hazy as that memory may be now. You recall getting angry and drunk and then drunk and angry at Karkat for…what? The emotions you had at the time were strong but where they sprung from, you’re unsure of. It was smothered by everything else that happened—familial revelations, illness, and nearly fucking dying to a bunch of green-faced maniacs.

You can never forget the smell of spilt blood or the sound of Kankri cracking the skull of the intruder open. You were thankful for it then, but you don’t think its something you’ll ever forget.

Those feelings, buried in the past of high school junior and seventeen-year-old Terezi, kickstarted a lot of things. Moving in with Kankri and your life falling into this weird domesticity you still don’t know how you feel about. Oh, and you slept with Karkat and Kankri at the same time. Whatever in the fuck brought _that_ on, you have no idea. You think that was the last act of being a stupid teenager you ever did. Now you’re just a stupid adult.

“It worked out.” you say.

“Until it didn’t.” Sollux says.

You don’t answer and just sink in the car seat. If you could melt through the car and sink to the center of the earth, you would. Sollux sighs.

“I know you’re not lovey-dovey with Vriska. I think you two, well…she _hates_ you. And you hate her and that’s fine.” he says, “The problem is that _neither_ of you have anyone to hold that hate back and if you’re not careful, you get a lot of other people involved in your caliginous mess. People who _don’t_ deserve it, I mean. Vriska’s sugar mama probably knew what she was getting into when she got involved with Vriska but involving a little kid is another.”

“And I still don’t get why that’s a big deal!” Everyone’s lectured you about the decision from Kankri to Sollux and you still don’t grasp why. “Arthat’s not like Kempie or Suxxor. He’s just like Vriska. He hated Hecuba and he was in on the whole time. He _wanted_ to help and it’s not like I did it for bad reasons. I did this for our mother--”

“ _Don’t_.” Sollux growls and your mouth snaps shut. You’ve never heard him snarl like this before; not even at Eridan or Suxxor at his most irritating. “Terezi, this stopped being about Mom’s illness a long time ago.”

You look away from your brother.

“Mom is _sick_ , ‘Rez.” Sollux’s lukewarm hands rests on your shoulder but you pull away from his touch. “Even with nanite therapy, Mom’s lifespan is going to be incredibly short for her hemotype and the same goes for MT. You _know_ the money from this lawsuit. You know the money from the lawsuit isn’t going to be enough to let Mom and MT live comfortably into old age. From what you told me, it may not even be enough to pay our _rent_ and going on a revenge quest against DynamiCHEM _isn’t_ going to change that.”

Your heart swells and deflates so fast it feels like it could burst. You slowly sink in your seat, hating your brother for cutting through your potential argument. You wipe at your pitiable amount of tears, coming through your barely working eyes. You should fight him, be screaming and arguing for your cause—your need to protect and shield your mother, but your resolve just…implodes.

Sollux wraps his arms around you and this time, you don’t pull away this time.

“I hate you…” you sob into his shoulder.

“It’s alright to.” Sollux whisper. 

“Why can I never help her?” you ask, “I couldn’t work. I couldn’t code. I couldn’t…I _can’t_ do _anything_. I was just a burden, Sollux! Just another mouth to feed and another drain on Mom. I’ve _always_ been a burden.”

“Is that why you left home? You wanted to stop being a ‘burden’ to us?”

“Yes.” It hurts like your heart is being torn out of chest to say it out loud. “I just wanted to help her. You were always putting everything you had toward the family, from money to keeping Dad calm. I just felt so useless. It…it felt like _you_ were the big brother and I was just a dumb kid.”

Sollux’s body goes rigid with surprise but not for long. He’s not an idiot; on some level, he’s always known that he has taken charge of your family even before you had moved out.

“I didn’t mind helping.” Sollux says, “I still don’t.”

“But you shouldn’t have to!” With the tears and pain slowly draining from you, your voice is becoming clearer. “You should be spending your money on things you like. Games. Fast cars. Jewelry for Eridan. Things for _you_. You should be enjoying it.”

Sollux laughs. “The last thing ED wants is the cheap jewelry I could afford.” You sniffle again and Sollux gently headbutts you, like he always would when you were so much smaller. When the only complication in your life was an asshole father. “I only do the things I do because of you. You protected me for a long time and now, you need someone to protect you.”

“From myself?” you snort.

“You’re not dangerous, ‘Rez.” Sollux strokes your face and its gentle. The gentlest touch you’ve ever experienced. You lean into it, shutting your eyes and enjoying the comfort. “Yeah, you fucked up with but that’s just life. We’re all gonna fuck up. And yeah, I raked you over the coals a bit but it was cause I was worried and disappointed but…you’re not uncaring. You were just, well--”

“ _Blinded_ by my ideas?” you say with a big grin.

“I wasn’t going to _say_ that!” Sollux laughs.

“You were!” you laugh back, “It was on the tip of your tongue! I could smell it!”

“Bullshit!”

Then you’re both laughing. You’ve gone from miserable tears to fraternal coziness to goofy joy. The dizziness and nausea has been cleared away. Your mind feels unclouded in a way it hasn’t been in…shit, _months_ maybe. You’re not sure. All you know is that you’re with your brother, laughing in your mother’s beat-up car and enjoying yourselves. When the laughter peters off, you two stare into each other’s eyes. You wonder what Sollux sees when you look into his haze of mustardy brotherly-based affection.

“Guess we can’t deny it any longer,” Sollux say, “This is definitely…pale. Super pale.”

“Pale as sugar.” You agree.

There’s no fret spreading through Sollux about his double-occupied moirailegiance. He’s likely made his peace with it already, realizing he’s more babysitter to your brain-fried father than a proper quadrant.

“Whatever,” Sollux says, “we’re not the first siblings to be in a quadrant.”

“At least no one will compare us to Salamander Cersei and Jaime.”

Sollux laughs. “Gods forbid. I’ve always been more of a Carapace Daenerys fan. Book only though, since they botched her in the live action adaptions--”

You hit your brother in the shoulder. “We’re confirming our pale quadrant! Now is not the time for your _Game of Thrones_ related complaints!”

“You’re the one who brought it up!”

Your first move with your newly designated moirail is to give him a noogie for being a huge dork.


	2. holding hands

You don’t spend the whole evening in the car. Not only because it smells of old milk and the seats are sticky with spilt juice, but you have other things to do. Sollux goes into your trailer to once again collect his wayward son and you kiss your own son and tell him he’s the best boy in the whole world (because its true).

Kankri is…quiet. Suspiciously so. He’s already made dinner with Kempie’s help and made sure Kempie and Astrid are preoccupied with a movie on TV so you can have a grownup-focused conversation for once. The two kits have their dinner in the living room while Kankri and you are in the kitchen, soldiering through yet another experimental Germanium recipe.

“Too much ginger in the sauce?” Kankri chuckles.

“No. Its fine.” You cough and take another swig of water.

“Kempie spilled a bit more than the recipe intended. I’m just glad the patties came out alright.” Kankri mumbles as he struggles to cut through a half-burnt meat patty. “Well. _Mostly_ alright.” he concedes. 

“Okay.” You put down your fork because there’s no way you can make your teeth suffer through chewing another piece of patty or abuse your tongue with the overly spiced ginger gravy. “Time to tell me what’s going on.”

“Oh? Oh.” Kankri looks at you and then returns to trying to cut the patty, like he’s poorly trained lumber-troll. “I-it’s nothing.”

You fix him with a stare and when the mutantblood doesn’t answer, you say, “I seem to recall a certain someone saying how I don’t listen to people and how he wanted honesty--”

“I _know_!” Kankri huffs. He puts down the knife and fork in temporary surrender. “I-I know I said I wanted honesty and its…just that. It’s just…I was wondering if I had something to do with this whole mess between Karkat and you.”

“Kankri…” you sigh.

“Let me finish, Terezi.” Kankri says. You fold your arms and let your matesprit continue, “I was thinking on what your brother said to me, about how you don’t make good choices when you get emotionally ‘amped up’ as he calls it. Well…maybe I’m one of those bad choices? You did move in with me out of the blue and in all honesty…” He exhales and rubs his face, “I should have been the adult then. It…it was _wrong_ to let an emotionally distraught teenager move in with me, especially one that I knew was friends with my own son. I-I should have known that it would cause problems, even if having you here gave me comfort after I was attacked.”

“Do…you want to break up?” Even saying that out loud feels like slowly dragging glass across your heart.

“No! O-of course not! I still flush you, Terezi. A lot.” Kankri’s voice is stable. His eyes aren’t full of tears and he isn’t ready to collapse in on himself from just the thought of your red quadrant breaking up. “I just worry that I’m keeping you from your real matesprit.”

You reach across the table and touch his hand.

“ _You’re_ my real matesprit, Kankri.” you say, “Yeah, our relationship has never been conventional but we understand and love each other.. Even if we were to break up, I don’t think we’d ever stop being friends.”

Kankri smiles. “I think even if we did break up, you would still come by to complain about work and how annoying your brother is.”

“And eat your food.”

Kankri shakes his head and gathers your plates. Dinner is yet another culinary disaster, but you didn’t expect anything different. “Suffer through is more like it.”

“Kempie and Astrid aren’t complaining.”

“They don’t know any better.”

You clean up the kitchen with your matesprit, talking about what you have planned for the week—who Kempie and Astrid are going to be spending the day with, what’s going on at both your jobs, and what meals will be planned for the week.

“What are you going to do with the information you got from that lawyer?” Kankri asks.

“Honestly? I have no idea.” you sigh, “My boss told me to see if I could get information about DynamiCHEM from their smaller company, M&N, but that was just busy work. She didn’t say anything about this borderline corporate espionage Vriska and me did.”

“I would suggest against presenting this as your idea, then.” Kankri suggests, “People like your boss are bound to have a complex about someone younger gathering such information in such a short time. Usually these sorts of lawsuits take years to resolve.”

“It was at a high cost though.”

“Yes, but what’s done is done.” The older mutantblood shrugs. “You might as well figure out what your next step is. You said you had other information to give her?”

Meaning the doctored books from the WMS crisis that Vriska has been holding onto, ‘borrowed’ from Nektan before he fled for elsewhere. You’ve yet to tell anyone exactly what it is due to your healthy sense of paranoia. You feel anxious just knowing its still hidden-in-plain-sight location. You have a feeling Kankri knows what it is, though he won’t speak it out loud.

“I just don’t know if I can keep working at BF&W after this whole situation with DynamiCHEM.” you admit, “Every time I go there, I’ll just think about how they’re screwing Mom and a bunch of other people over.”

“Rezi, you’ve watched and read more litigation than any troll I know.” Kankri touches your shoulder and offers you a warm smile. “You had to have known such a profession requires some questionable decisions and witnessing plenty of unethical behavior on the parts of your colleagues. I’m sure your grandmother faced them as well. After all, she didn’t want her name on the firm.”

That is…a rather astute observation on Kankri’s part. Barrat had told you _her_ version of the story with your grandmother, about not wanting to give her descendants a complex about having to live up to her accomplishments. Now you question if there were other reasons at paly. It is odd that BF&W was founded by a human and troll and yet few of those who work in the offices are trolls.

“Even if you don’t become a lawyer, I’m certain you’ll find your calling.” Kankri says, “I’m rather biased but I think you’re the sort of troll to not give up on something so easily. Either way”—he shrugs—“its your call.”

That is an immutable truth: you have to be the one to decide if you will stay or go. Before that decision is made though, there’s one more matter you have to attend to.

“I need to speak with Vriska.” you say.

Kankri’s supportive haze of aqua blue shrivels up and transforms into a concerned aura of worried yellows and oranges. You can’t blame him for not trusting Vriska and you to your own machinations.

“She’s part of this too,” you say, “and its not going to be…crazy like last time.”

Kankri is frowning but sighs. “I expected as much,” he says, “From what I know, she’s at her mother’s. I would suggest going now before she relocates. You know better than anyone else how she is.”

Even Kankri understands that it would take some sort of natural disaster to keep Vriska and you apart.

You don’t leave right away, though. You spend some time with Kempie. Ever since the implosion of your pale quadrant, you haven’t spent much time with Kempie. You sit on the living room couch as Kempie talks extensively about his Saturday afternoon with Eukary and Themma.

“We had a lot of fun!” Kempie says, “Themma wanted to make another bottle rocket but Themma’s Dad said they were still paying back Miss Porrim for breaking her window, so we made slime instead.”

You have no idea what it is with people and slime lately. You think it’s one of those fads that must have missed since you’re not in the target age range. 

As you speak with Kempie on the couch, Kankri is in the children’s bedroom with Astrid in his effort to encourage her to speak more. Your matesprit moved on from flash cards and lecturing to trying to discern the source of Astrid’s long silences. So far, he’s made no progress, with the small purpleblood blocking every attempt to get her to speak like a stubborn goat refusing to walk with a leash—but Kankri is equally, if not more, stubborn.

Kempie, exhausted from a day of dealing with other children followed by a heavy meal, falls asleep in your arms. You put him in his pajamas and recuperacoon, comforting him with a kiss on the forehead. You wave goodbye to Kankri and take the car.

You drive with the windows rolled down. The evening wind blows in cold air from the bay, making the Ninth Ward smell like decaying fish and Dockside’s burnt plastic industrial odor. Overhead, cars are streaking by, blatantly ignoring the local zoning laws as they litter empty slushie cups and McDonalds bags. (Yet _another_ thing to complain about at the next neighborhood meeting)

The Serket-Zahhak trailer is nicely lit and has managed to finally fuse the questionable aesthetics of equine and Late Baroque obsessions. The hedges have been clipped into vague horse-shapes with flowering elderberries for manes and tails. Flowerpots hang near the doorway, showing off peonies in various shades of blue. Both Aranea and Horuss’s cars are in the driveway, which puts a knot in your stomach. You _had_ hoped only Vriska was home, but you can tangle with the relatives. You’re not so out of the loop that you’ve forgotten how.

You leave your car on the street and approach the door. You knock and don’t have to wait long for Aranea to answer.

When Aranea sees you, she gives you a long look before exhaling. “Thank gods. I was just about to call you.” she says.

You blink, though its more of a surprise-blink that a necessity-blink. “Really?”

Aranea nods and lets you inside the trailer. The coffee table has been pushed aside to make room for a robot kit sprawled on the floor. Horuss and Eukary are intensely studying the blueprints while surrounded by spare metal bits.

Aranea stands at the hall, anxiously peering down it. “I’ve been doing everything I can but she won’t leave the room.” the ceruleanblood whispers, barely audible over Horuss and Eukary debating over which robot model they’re going to start with. “I thought maybe I could…” She shakes her head, “Its up to you now.”

Aranea is trying to sound causal, but with your blind non-sight and smell, you see the concern weaved throughout those neutral-sounding words. Vriska won’t tolerate pity, especially from her parents. Once word of concern and Vriska would likely disappear for elsewhere, into a motel or a less scrupulous place for a young troll. Thus, Aranea is left stranded, waffling between pretending not to care and wondering what to do about her daughter.

You nod to Aranea, silently understanding the predicament. You walk down the hall, seeing that there are even more pictures of Aranea’s current family now. The pictures of her loving husband, her young son, the accolades of a military man and an educator hung on the wall preserved in frames. There’s nothing of her previous life with Porrim, Vriska, and Kanaya—that era is long since gone, though it’s not like it was full of happy memories. It’s not as if Porrim and her were happily quaded. 

You open the door to Vriska’s old room but instead find Eukary’s. The blueblood kit has covered his walls with posters of the five kinds of vertebrates, diagrams of human and xeno species, states of matter, and other science class decorations. Below the open window is a junior chemistry kit and several plastic bottles and tubes of current and past experiments. Any hint of Vriska is long since gone.

“It’s the other door.” Aranea calls down the hall.

She must have figured you might make that mistake. You close the bedroom door and approach what you once knew used to be the storage room. You jiggle the knob but its locked.

“I’m sleeping.” Vriska says, muffled by the door.

“Sleeping people don’t talk.” You say.

Vriska grumbles but there’s a rustle and the door opens. She looks like a car ran her over, then backed up over the ceruleanblood to put her out of her misery. Her hair is a sloppy mess of slept-in tangles and she’s wearing the rumpled leftovers of high school fashion with their eternal stains. It’s like Vriska never left the neighborhood.

You take one look at her and decide this affront won’t stand.

“We’re going out.” you declare.

“The fuck I am.” Vriska leaves the door and returns to the air mattress lying the floor. Aside from the mattress and the Vriska’s luggage, the room is bare. Daily clothes have exploded from the luggage bag, tossed about and not even folded. It contains not even a fraction of what you know Vriska travels with. (How much did she leave behind in Nehetaly? And why?)

“I’m not leaving you here to sulk.” You say.

“I’m not sulking. I’m…skillfully withdrawn.” Vriska says. She’s staring at the ceiling, as if its cracks will provide her with answers. “Think ‘Iguana Achilles in his tent’.”

“Who’s Iguana Achilles?” you ask.

“Oh my gods!” Vriska grabs a throw pillow stolen from the couch and smothers her face. “We read _all_ of the Reptile Iliad in middle school _and_ did that stupid presentation and you can’t even _bother_ to remember any of it?”

Given the miniscule importance of middle school in the grand scheme of things, your memories of it have become as fuzzy as an incredibly old sweater.

“We’re going out.” you reiterate.

“I don’t want to be bothered.” Vriska mumbles.

“Then why did you let me in?”

“Because I don’t want Mom bitching at me if you stand in the hallway making noise. She already thinks I’m being detrimental to Eukary just _being_ here. As if breathing the same air as me would turn him into a drug addict.”

If Aranea thought that, she wouldn’t have let you in. Hell, she would have tossed Vriska out on her ear by now. Then again, Vriska has always been more dramatic than everyone in Egbert’s theater troupe combined. Rather than debate the emotional ceruleanblood, you flip over the air mattress. Vriska yelps, hitting the floor.

“Get over yourself.” You say. Vriska is ten years too late for you to tolerate one of her pity parties. “Put on some clothes and let’s _go_.”

“Bitch.” Vriska scoffs from the floor.

You rummage through her luggage, airing out the unwashed clothes. The trailer is already stuffy and the room’s added-on scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and old dinners threatened to punch you in the nose with its obnoxiousness. You pick out a shirt and bra and toss them at the ceruleanblood’s head. The bra hooks onto the crook of Vriska’s right horn until she yanks it off.

Vriska observes the lacy bra, made exclusively for showing off rather than being concealed in a shirt. “You couldn’t have picked the _less_ slutty clothes?” she gripes.

“I can’t tell what constitutes as ‘slutty’ or whatever you think the opposite of ‘slutty’ is.”

“‘Classy’ is the opposite of ‘slutty.’” Vriska clarifies and shucks off her rumpled shirt. She pulls on the shirt, bra, and assembles the remainder of the outfit from clothes scattered around the room.

You don’t really care to get into a long conversation about slut dichotomy; that’s more for Kankri and Porrim to discuss/argue about. You can’t really give much of a shit about fashion when you’re blind-but-not-really. Once Vriska is dressed, you exit the trailer without a word from Aranea.

You don’t talk until you’re in the car.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Do we have to do this now?” Vriska grumbles as she wipes sleep crust and stray eyelashes from her face. “I already got a migraine.”

“Were you drugged? Did she hurt you?” Your claws dig into the steering wheel, “I’ll fucking kill her if she hurt you.”

“Terezi--”

_“I mean it!”_ Your heart beats harder, gearing up to fight an enemy that isn’t even in the same country as you. “Let me at the bitch! I don’t care if she jams my ass up with lawsuits for the next five hundred years! I’ll never let her hurt you and just…just get _away_ with it!”

“Fuck’s sake, Terezi! Calm down!” Vriska grabs your face, turning your anger from the distant horizon and back to her. Her cold grip is infectious and her body smells of old makeup and sweat and failure mixed with pity. “Jegus, what’s gotten into you?”

“What do you _think?_ ” you snap. You would be crying if you weren’t so fucking angry right now. Emotions are boiling inside you, threatening to spill over and scald everything. “Gods _damn_ it, Vriska! You leave for months on end and don’t bother say a thing. Don’t you know how dangerous older trolls are?”

“Like Kankri’s ‘dangerous’?”

“You _know_ what I mean.” There are a critical differences in personality and temperament between a thirty-year-old troll and a century-year-old troll.

Vriska rolls her eyes. “They’re not as dangerous as they _could_ be.”

You know she means on the homeworld, where your grandparents would have killed you for meat, and warmbloods were at the mercy of the cold. But that’s a harsher world and one you’ll only experience in historical dramas and the few written annals of Alternian history. Its not the reality you have to deal with right now and you refuse to be distracted by Vriska’s pettiness.

“Tell me what happened.” you demand.

Vriska’s eightfold-and-one stare is long and unflinching. For a minute, you think she won’t answer but then the ceruleanblood exhales like anyone who has struggled against the inevitable and seen that its gone on far too long.

“Hecuba’s office has motion detectors.” Vriska says.

With those five words, your stomach drops out. All those cautions you took to get into the penthouse, all that sneaking and planning with Vriska and Arthat aiding you in the search…and yet it led to what you feared the most. 

“When did she find out it was you?” you ask.

“The next night. I was saved by the time zone difference in Nehetaly and hectic schedules.” Vriska says with a wry smile, “Corporate lawyers have to deal with break-ins and espionage all the time, so Hecuba had the information…‘insured’. The pay-out for lost information is the failure of the security company, not hers. Since they’ll pay out more than her contractors will, she said I did her a favor by financing her new yacht.” 

A troll that generous with information would be confident, considering their failures no different from their successes. “And she didn’t throttle you? Not even a little?”

Vriska touches her neck but there are no bruises to show past or present abuses—just a fear of it.

“She said…I wasn’t _worth_ it.” she mumbles, “Not worth the energy or the potential lawsuit. Hecuba said I wasn’t worth… _anything._ She knew I would bite the hand that feeds—that I was the type just to do it—so she just used it to her advantage. She said out of all her paramours, my attempt to take advantage of her was predictable and pathetic. I wasn’t ‘amusing’ anymore so…”

The ceruleanblood shrugs, returning to defeated silence.

“So that’s it? You…gave up?”

“Gave up. Threw in the towel.” Vriska stares into the middle distance of the empty road. At this time of night, everyone has either headed for work, bed, or downtown for amusement. “Are we going someplace or are you going to interrogate me all night?”

She has more to say but you can’t push it. The car smells of your matesprit and your family, which is another reminder of what Vriska doesn’t have waiting for her back home. Hell, what even _is_ home for Vriska? Her presence has been erased in her mother’s trailer. Her father’s trailer never had a space for her to begin with. The penthouse is no longer an option (and you wonder if she’ll ever retrieve her or Arthat’s things from it).

Where can you go from here? Sonic? Sweet memories were made there but so were the mistakes that placed you on this miserable path. A motel? Vriska would get the wrong idea immediately and you’d be back to square one, or lower.

An idea springs to mind and its really the only sanctuary offered. You just hope its not too late. You open the car door, looking at the woman you hate the most in all of the world.

“Come on.” You say.

Vriska grumbles but follows. You walk to the trailer next door to the Serket-Zahhak. In the warm weather, the sides of the trailer are lush with kudzu and the lawn full of that obnoxious breed of New Jack dandelion and clover pushing through pristine grass. Since Kanaya started doing fulltime, she hasn’t been able to tend the lawn like she used to.

You ring the doorbell and Kanaya answers, wearing her rockabilly black sailor dress. You guess the heat of a summer evening isn’t a concern for her, although there is a sheen of some sweat on her skin. The jadeblood looks at her sisters and sighs.

“Of course.” She says and lets you both inside.

The living room is dark, lit only by the TV whose screen has a movie on pause. You can’t hear Porrim’s cackle and the air smells of lingering scallions and cayenne, so dinner has already been prepared and likely consumed.

“Where’s Dad?” Vriska asks.

“Matesprit. I think they’re on a walk, but its more likely they’re fucking in the woods.” Kanaya says. She sits on the couch, spread legged and completely relaxed despite the unexpected guests.

“What is with you guys and fucking in the woods?” you mutter and sit next to her. You sag into the groove formed there by gods know how many asses. You’re a little too tired to be worried about that right now.

Vriska sits on the other side of her sister. She grabs the popcorn, looking at the frozen scene of what looks like a lump of fleshy potato salad attacking a woman. “This a horror movie?” she asks.

“It’s the _Basket Case_ remake.” Kanaya says, “I’ve been meaning to watch it.”

“And you’re not doing it with Fef?” you ask.

“She doesn’t like horror movies, plus it’s hard to watch something more adult with Momeju always popping up.” Kanaya says, taking a handful of popcorn.

“Get used to it.” Vriska snorts, “I bet you’ll be all moved in by the end of the summer.”

“I’d rather not make the same mistakes you have by presuming a move will fix everything.” Kanaya says.

Vriska and Kanaya snipe at each other, enjoying their banter that is equal parts sisterly love and sisterly irritation. They’re both sick of each other’s shit and yet missed each other too much to isolate the other. Your attentions flicker between the shitty not-even-a-B-grade-movie and the sisters’ back and forth.

“You could have visited earlier.” Kanaya says, “Dad was worried about you.”

“The fuck she was.” Vriska snorts.

“She doesn’t like to smother. You know how she is.”

Vriska smirks, “And you are…?”

“I knew you were going to come back.” Kanaya says, wearing indifference on her sleeve and concern in her jade eyes.

Vriska’s eyes take on a flinty look. “ _Crawling_ , you mean.”

“Crawling, limping, walking, strutting…” Kanaya shrugs. “You’re here in one piece. That’s what matters to me.”

Vriska says nothing and picks at a frayed string on her jean shorts. The jadeblood leaves the couch for the kitchen and returns with two beers and a soda. She gives you the soda and the beer to Vriska. 

“If you’re going to sulk, at least drink with me.” Kanaya says.

“Most people would say drinking would make things worse.” Vriska says but pops open the beer anyway.

Kanaya rolls her eyes. “You’re actually _more_ sociable when you’re drinking.” Which must mean Vriska is less bitchy when her guard is down.

The two sisters drink, carouse and carol about their time spent separated. Kanaya fills in Vriska on events missed in the neighborhood and New Jack: the shifting of neighbors, the constant construction, and the always underfoot children. Vriska brings with her news of Nehetalian fashions and trends. Into her third beer, the ceruleanblood cracks jokes about the strange familiarity of the Nehetalian city: the crowded casinos, the rail-thin supermodels whose diets consist of pills and expensive wine, the abundant yet blandly seasoned seafood, and coffee. Plenty of coffee to go around with every Nehetalian meal.

The movie ends but Vriska and Kanaya are laughing too hard to pay attention. You’ve been forgotten by the sisters, but that’s honestly a relief. You don’t have to position yourself between Vriska and Kanaya to keep them from killing each other. You don’t have to be on guard for a blowout and you don’t have to worry about… _anything_. For now, you’re friends enjoying an informal party. 

Vriska grabs the DVD remote before you can. “Alright, if I’m staying _I’m_ picking the next movie!” She squints at the screen, “I’m either _super_ drunk or this menu is balls. Is that a jpeg artifact?”

One whiff of the screen and you get the rancid waft of low-resolution images and using the first images the bootlegger saw after a quick googling.

“It’s bootleg.” Kanaya says, “Fef always drags me to those church flea markets and someone was selling one of those twelve-in-a-pack DVD things.”

“You get what you pay for, I guess.” Vriska opens another beer. “Rezi, call your matesprit if you’re gonna stay. He’ll think we jumped over a gorge or something if you don’t.”

“Shit, you’re right.” You should be thankful Kankri hasn’t called the police after what happened last time Vriska and you were together. While Vriska and Kanaya debate over the next movie to pick, you get on your iHusk and call home.

As always, Kankri promptly answers the phone. //“Terezi? Are you alright?”//

“We’re at Kanaya’s. I just wanted to let you know that we’re…okay.”

You don’t know why you said that last part. Kankri should already know that everything is fine but somehow saying it out loud makes it feel more solid. More real. That you’re not just lying to yourself to keep the peace, no matter how temporary it may turn out to be.

//“Just try not to overdose on sugar.”// Kankri says with a warm chuckle.

“I’ll try. Tell Kempie I said goodnight if he wakes up.”

After calling Kankri, the night seems to speed by you. You drift from bad movie to bad movie, intermittently drifting off and waking up to Kanaya and Vriska quietly talking or mocking what’s on the screen. The weight of daily living is off your shoulders as you relax with your two friends.

You wake up on a pile of blankets. You must have been asleep for a while because the room is dark, except for the flickering light of the TV. Its showing an old sitcom and murmuring canned laughter. Kanaya is curled up on her side, almost self-cocooned in her silk sheets like a proper moth. Vriska’s head is near yours, daring to be closet to you but not too close. Her hair is rubbing against your skin—threads of black against a grey landscape.

You comb your fingers through Vriska’s hair, working around tangles and an unfamiliar dryness coming from a combination of going unwashed and sea-salt exposure.

“I fucked up.” You admit, looking into the black tangles and hoping to divine answers. 

“We both fucked up.” Vriska’s voice is clear, neither whispering from guilt nor slurred from alcohol. With her lifestyle, she can shrug off booze without fear. “But, I’m okay with fucking up if its with you. Terezi, I…I just want to keep fucking things up with you until we’re old and gray and mean…I just…want _you_.”

“I want you too.” You can’t believe how soppy your declaration of absolute hate is, “I hate you so much I can hardly think.”

“I hate you too.” Vriska says, voice trembling.

You hold her and kiss her and do everything to be in the same space as her. You missed this and you missed _her_ , but it can’t last. There’s no way she can stay in your neighborhood, among all these memories she hates and the bridges she’s burned. This is just a nocturnal fairytale spell and come morning, you’ll wake up and wonder if it was all a dream.

But you’re not worrying about that. Not now. Not tonight and especially not in this moment.

“Wait. _Wait_ …” Vriska breaks off the kiss, “There’s something else. Something…important. _Fuck_.”

“What else did you fuck up?”

“I…” Vriska debates, chewing on her bottom lip. “I might be pregnant.”

The world slow down before impact, slowly but surely bursting that fairytale bubble you had going. Well. Even _you_ knew it was going to happen soon. You just had hoped it wouldn’t be _this_ soon.

“…what?” you ask.

“ _What_?” Kanaya sits up, tossing aside sheets and exchanging coziness for immediate irritation. “ _Seriously, Vriska_!?”

“Kanaya, were you _awake_ this whole time?” Vriska asks. Her cheeks are cerulean, scandalized that her twin would be awake for her caliginous confessions.

“Sort of.” Kanaya shakes her head, fighting off her the dregs of her alcoholic buzz. “I was hoping to sneak out the room when you two started fucking _but seriously, Vriska?_ You were on birth control!”

“I _was_!” Vriska insists, “But we lost our luggage and with the time zone difference, I didn’t get it in time! Plus, I was planning on fleecing some cash from Hecuba with a false positive but _then_ I thought about the timing--”

“Wait, back up.” you say, “ _What_ false positive?”

“Do I really have to go _into_ that?” Vriska groans.

“ _Yes_!” Kanaya and you insist.

“Fine.” Vriska grunts, “So, a few months back a coworker of mine figured out that troll pregnancy tests rely on body heat. You run one under a faucet hot or cold depending on blood type and it would change to false positive. It was a great way to get, uh, lets call it ‘advancement checks’ from sugar daddies.”

“Of _course_ a ‘coworker’ of _yours_ would know that.” Kanaya sighs, “But what about Arthat, Vriska?” Vriska has no answer. “ _Vriska_!”

“I don’t _know_!” Vriska gasps, shoulders sagging. “If it’s cerulean, Mom said she wanted to raise them, but I don’t… _like_ that. You know how Mom gets about ceruleanblood things.” She frowns, wrapping her arms around her. “And Arthat wouldn’t be happy with Karkat in the long run. Arthat doesn’t like or respect him. Even for a cerulean, he’s hard to handle and I don’t know how safe it is for Arthat to live so close to humans. You know how it is, Kanaya…you know the _real_ reason Mom and Dad didn’t live together.”

Kanaya’s jaw is still tightly shut and her body language is rigid. Her eyes are piercing, forcing intensely on her sister’s expressions—as if scanning for lies and potential hidden schemes. As far as you knew, Porrim and Aranea never lived together because of the cost but it sounds like that was just a ‘cover story’ for everyone else in the neighborhood.

You wonder if there’s ever going to be a time in your life when your family and friends take actions for plain-faced reasons and not due to hidden agendas.

“Kanaya,” you say, “what’s she talking about?”

Kanaya’s eyes narrow but doesn’t take them off her sister. “Sometimes…” she says, “…ceruleans need a space of their own. There’s a reason our ancestors lived so far apart, and it wasn’t just because of the lusii. Trolls can easily be a danger unto themselves, or those nearby.”

And gods know there’s plenty of danger near Arthat. You don’t want to think of the end results if Arthat’s psionics were to harm anyone who lives at SHEV. Even in the best situation, he’d be made a pariah among humans and trolls alike.

“But Karkat _is_ his father,” you say, “and there’s no one else to take him besides Aranea. Even if you don’t like the way she raises him, Arthat needs to be with someone who, well, _wants_ him.”

“Mom may _want_ him, but she doesn’t have the room or time.” Vriska says, “I doubt Arthat would like or respect Horuss and Mom already has a lot on her plate. She’s taking care of Eukary _and_ working fulltime. She doesn’t want to view Eukary as a burden but…”

But it’s something that can’t be ignored, no matter how shitty and unfair it is to Eukary. The blueblood’s child only crime is surviving when every doctor thought he would die during pupation. 

“I…have an idea.” Kanaya says cautiously, “but I doubt you’re going to like it, Vriska.”

Vriska gives her sister a small, sad smile. “What other choice do I have?”


	3. the bargain

**== >Terezi: Be Karkat the next morning**

The morning sun is daggers against your eyelids. You blink harshly, fighting grogginess and morning soreness as you sit up in bed. Nessie is resting on you (of course), so you put her on Dave before getting out of bed. You shower and study your face in the mirror, questioning if you should shave or accept your destined scruffiness.

You try to think of a new tactic to get Arthat to open up to you. Unfortunately, you still have nothing on that still blank list.

Should you tell him that Vriska is back? No, you’re certain that would just make things worse. Is it possible to trick Vriska into coming over your trailer, then? No, that would also end in disaster. Perhaps you need to be more creative in your planning…like bringing Arthat to her—toss him through the window and run off before she gets a word in? That idiotic plan has plenty of problems but the main one being that you doubt Arthat would let you pick him up, let alone get close enough for a single touch.

Shit, have you never hugged Arthat? You tried to pat him on the head once and he moved so quickly, you swore the kid was part ninja. You haven’t hugged Khanie either, but that’s mostly because she’s a hurricane of biting and kicking. Nessie, on the other hand, switches between annoyingly clingy and stubbornly independence.

So, your track record of hugging children that are related to you and/or the same species as you is still zero.

You’re relieved when your iHusk vibrates, distracting you from your dismal train of thought. Your phone is shaking on the living room end table, making a soft _vmm vmm_ so you don’t disturb Jade or Dave when they’re recharging from dealing with their rugrat.

The iHusk ID proclaims one name: _Vriska._ You hesitate for two seconds before biting the bullet.

“Yeah?” You sit on the couch and prep yourself for a morning bout of ceruleanblood nonsense. 

//“Sorry, its so early.”// Vriska’s voice is less worn from the last time you saw her but still solemn. Nehetaly must have drained even her emergency bitchiness reserves. //“I would have sent you a text but last time…so, yeah. I’m calling instead.”//

At this time of the morning, you would have preferred a text. Voice messages usually imply some major bullshit is about to go down.

“What is it?” you ask, keeping your voice at a chilled neutrality. You’re still kind of pissed at her (with good reason).

//“I…”// Vriska pauses, inhaling. You hear someone else’s voice in the background but can’t identify it. //“I’d like to see Arthat. And you. I want to talk with you about the custody…thing.”//

You bite your lip so you don’t explode into cursing. _Of course_ , she would be calling about custody. There’s no _other_ reason for Vriska to call you. Certainly _not_ to apologize for all the shit Terezi and her pulled and will continue to pull until you’re dead, buried, and _fucking free_ of their nonsense.

You take a deep breath and count to ten. Now is not the time to be angry. You’ll need to conserve that energy for putting up with Arthat and Khanie. 

You can control your anger.

You can master it.

Actually…

Actually, you _can’t_. You’re about ten seconds away from flinging the phone into the wall.

“I’d rather not do this right now. It’s…” You look at the clock. “Fuck, Vriska, its like eight in the morning!”

//“You think I want to do this either?”// Vriska asks, agitation creeping into her voice.

The other voice says something. Vriska argues back, leaning away from the phone so its muffled. The argument gets louder, followed by the _thunk_ of the phone falling, and then static. 

“Vriska?” you ask, “The fuck is going on?”

//“Sorry about that.”// another voice says. Its smoother and friendlier than Vriska’s has ever been.

“ _Kanaya_? What are you doing here?”

//“Same thing you are: dealing with Vriska.”// Kanaya says. You hear Vriska grumbling in the background. //“Here’s the idea, Karkat: we’ll have brunch at my trailer at ten. You bring Arthat and we’ll talk about this like adults.”//

“Brunch?” You’ve never been to brunch, let alone have it involve a discuss about child custody. Once again, it feels like you’re being crowded by two trolls who want to push you, or rather Arthat, into doing as they want. “I swear to the gods, if this is some kind of scheme, I’m fucking done with dealing _all_ of you.”

//“Why…why would you say that?”// Kanaya asks. You flinch from her quiet tone, hearing the genuine hurt in her words. //“I just feel like we should all talk about what’s best for Arthat. You can bring someone along if you like. I just want us to talk about this like…a family.”//

_Family._ That word hits you square in the chest. Your mind reels from the impact but your gut steadies you, telling you to trust Kanaya. Out of everyone, she’s one of the few trolls who hasn’t kept secrets from you. Out of everyone, she’s the kindest and most reliable.

“Alright.” you say, “I’ll see you at ten.”

You hang up and just…stare. Not at your phone or at anything within the living room. The birds are chirping directly outside the living room window, welcoming the morning or seeking for the animal equivalent of fuckbuddies. You consider for a whole ten seconds going alone to deal with Vriska, Kanaya, and whatever situation awaits you. Then you dismiss that as the single worst idea you’ve had recently. On the list of “Poor Choices made by Karkat”, it registers as a notch below sleeping with Vriska in the first place.

It takes you five minutes to recollect yourself and dial the number you’ve begun to learn by heart.

//“’Sup, Kar?”// Eridan answers.

“Can you come with me to see Vriska about custody shit?” You had planned on sounding casual, but the words just come out sad and mumbled.

//“Of course!”// Eridan says, //“Oh shit, I better figure out where to dump the boys since Sol’s busy. Maybe I could ask Kankri…”//

“You could probably bring Suxxor. They want me to bring Arthat along.”

//“I think Suxxor and Arthat get along, so that’ll be nice...”// Eridan continues in his upbeat lilt, planning out where he’ll put Dmitry and how he’ll schedule the day. You wish you could match his energy. Eridan’s words only trail off when you don’t respond after a minute.

//“Kar, everything’s going to be fine.”// Eridan says, gently, //“Stop thinking in worst-case scenarios.”//

“Eridan. Our _lives_ are worst-case scenarios.”

//“Yeah, but we’ve lived through them. That’s all you can do on this bitch of a planet.”//

“I… _guess_ so,” you grumble, “I’ll pick you up at nineish.”

You say “nineish” because time is warped and bendable with kids in the mix. You hang up and look at the hallway. Had you not been staring into space, you would have noticed the shadow crouched there sooner. They’re standing outside Nessie and Arthat’s room and they’re too small to be an adult or a threat. You’re not sure if they still think they’re invisible or hoping you’ll continue ignoring them.

“Hungry, Arthat?” you ask.

Arthat jolts but leaves the hall with a grumble. Snippy follows, staying close to his charge’s ankle. Your son doesn’t let up his glare, blatantly challenging you in a manner you are certain no traditionally minded adult troll would tolerate.

“How does brunch with your mother sound?” you propose.

Arthat’s face briefly lights up before quickly returning to his familiar pout. “Fine.” the kit grunts and stalks back to the bedroom.

You smile once he’s gone. Seeing that look of happiness on Arthat’s face—albeit incredibly briefly—makes this entire annoyance almost seem worth it. You decide to shave and mentally prep yourself to deal with your ex.

Having Eridan bring Suxxor along was good foresight because the yellowblood kit keeps Arthat preoccupied with questions and rambling about his misadventures around the neighborhood. Suxxor is excited to have someone to pester that isn’t a sibling and Arthat (you _think_ ) is happy to have someone to speak to that’s closer to his intelligence level and verbality than Nessie.

Arthat’s legs shake as he exits the car. You offer him the hand but (as expected) the kit ignores it and clings to his lusus. Snippy curls against his tiny body and his claws give Arthat’s arm long, reassuring strokes. Arthat marches to the door of the Maryam trailer with an uneasy determination. Suxxor follows close, familiar with the location but clueless as to his friend’s mounting anxiety.

You don’t have high hopes when you knock on the door. You feel like a gentle breeze could knock you over. The door opens and you instinctively move back, expecting a reinvigorated Vriska to assault you with noise.

But no. There’s no irate ceruleanblood behind the door. Kanaya is wearing the same polka-dotted summer dress you saw her trot out in high school. You think the only reason it hasn’t been retired is because you’re surrounded by children—the literal embodiments of tornado-style messes—which makes spare clothing mandatory.

Kanaya warmly greets Eridan and you before even looking in Arthat’s direction. “Its nice to meet you, Arthat,” she says, “I’m your aunt, Kanaya.”

Arthat dashes ahead, trying to get past the jadeblood and into the trailer. You reach out to snatch Arthat’s collar but Kanaya is faster than you. Kanaya touches his shoulder—doesn’t grab or yank. Just taps the kit so Arthat is jolted out of his single-minded attempt to get past her. The small ceruleanblood gives her an indignant, poisoned look but Kanaya remains in the doorway.

“It’s not polite to just run into someone’s house like that.” Kanaya says. If your anger is comparable to fire, Kanaya’s is a quiet blizzard—stinging, cold, and yet completely controlled. She doesn’t raise her voice, but you know the anger and annoyance is there.

“Who are vous?” Arthat grumbles.

“Kanaya. Your aunt,” Kanaya repeats, “and if you want to come in and see your mother, you have to be polite.”

Arthat continues his glare but Kanaya doesn’t look away. Eridan. Suxxor, and you look at each other, unsure if you should interrupt the two cobras staring each other down.

Then Arthat’s shoulders slump. “ _May_ je come in?” he grumbles.

“Yes.” Kanaya happily steps aside, letting Arthat pass by.

Vriska is sitting on the living room couch and she’s returned to her previous fashionista ways—combed hair, makeup, and lipstick. The only thing that stands out is that she’s wearing one of Kanaya’s dresses and accessories rather than designer brands.

You doubt Arthat notices or cares. He runs toward his mother and Vriska opens her arms, embracing her son. He bombards her with questions—how was her trip? How long did it take to go? To come back? What was the food like? Arthat tries to wring every detail out of his mother. Kanaya makes polite conversation with you, talking about the brunch Vriska and her made. Suxxor demands to know further details about the promised meal.

All the conversation in the room sounds like the distant buzz of hornets. Arthat smiles at Vriska will all the love and appreciation he’ll never show you.

Eridan touches your hand. “Need a minute, Kar?” Eridan whispers.

You shake your head and force a smile so hard it feels like your cheeks might tear.

“Nah, just hungry.” You say.

“Me too!” Suxxor insists.

Your body refuses to be hungry, which is shitty of it because brunch smells delicious. There are hashbrowns, bacon, fruit, and fluffy omelets. You have a feeling Kanaya prepared the bulk of this, but you’re not here to debate that. You sip at a mug of black coffee and listen to Arthat excitedly describe his life at SHEV. To your surprise it’s not an endless string of complaints but observations concerning humans.

“Did vous know that human spawn can’t do _anything_? Not even get their own food! How do they survive, Mere?” Arthat says. Most of his fascination lies with Nessie’s lack of independence. You wish you had talked Rose into coming over so Arthat could meet Casey and learn what _true_ infantile helplessness looked like.

“That’s humans for you.” Vriska chuckles.

Once the last of the bacon has been consumed (snatched by Suxxor from Eridan’s plate), Kanaya badgers Vriska into cleaning up and directs Arthat and Suxxor to the backyard.

“Je want to speak to Mere!” Arthat shrieks.

“Not while the adults are talking.” Kanaya insists.

Arthat looks ready to throw a Khanie-sized tantrum but Suxxor grabs the ceruleanblood and runs outside. You have no idea what entertainment could be had in the Maryam yard, but you hope it’s enough to distract the duo for a while.

You remain at the kitchen table with Eridan next to you. Underneath the table, Eridan squeezes your hand.

“I’m fine.” you whisper.

“Sure.” Eridan says but sounds unconvinced.

Kanaya sits across from you with Vriska by her side. The green tablecloth and the table’s roundness only serve to remind you of a poker table, where you’re gambling with Arthat’s life. Your heart picks up speed but Eridan’s cold fingers are still on your hand, steadying you. You slow your breathing and remind yourself of simple facts: neither Kanaya nor Vriska are your enemies. You’re here to discuss what’s best for your son.

“So,” you say, “I guess we’ll start talking about what we all want.”

“I…” Vriska glances at Kanaya and you see on her face the same uneasy look you just gave Eridan. “I don’t want my mother to have total custody over Arthat and…I don’t think he should stay with you either.”

“I’m his _father_.” You say, from between clenched teeth.

Eridan’s thumb strokes your hand and you back down, but only a little. You’re still glaring death at Vriska.

“Why do you think that?” Eridan asks, coolly. His eyes are not on Vriska but Kanaya. 

“Arthat isn’t a regular psionic,” Vriska continues, “He’s incredibly strong and it’s only going to get stronger with age. He already doesn’t like you, Karkat, and I…don’t want to see him lose his temper and _do_ something to you. _Or_ anyone else.”

You were expecting righteous anger from Vriska’s response, but instead she’s quiet and troubled. There’s no trickery to be heard in her matter-of-fact tone and blank expression

“What makes you think he’ll hurt someone?” you ask.

“He’s a Serket.” Kanaya states.

“He’s also a Vantas.” You say but it’s a weak argument given your family history. When it comes to Vantases, losing your destructive temper is not a matter of _if_ but _when_.

“How could Arthat be such a strong psionic?” Eridan asks, “Suxxor and him were tested at the same time.” Vriska and Kanaya exchange a look and Eridan frowns. “Unless you figured out how to hide it from _them_.”

_Them_ being humans, but none of you have to say that. Not the friendly kind of human that treat you with benign indifference, but the panicky bigots that would see you locked in ghettos or dead rather than stand alongside them. The kind who use moral panics as an excuse to exercise their hatred in bloody riots.

“And what did you expect us to do?” Vriska asks, exasperated, “If _they_ knew how strong Arthat’s psionics were, _they’d_ put a chip in his brain for everyone else’s ‘safety’. Then _they’ll_ find any excuse to turn him into a military test subject. Do you honestly think our mother—our _grandmother_ —would allow such a thing?”

You can’t see Mindfang, having survived far harsher administrations, allowing anyone to meddle with her descendants.

“What you’re asking us to do is criminal.” Eridan says. You have no arguments against Vriska and Kanaya but Eridan remains stalwart. “If we help you conceal Arthat’s psionics and there’s an incident, _all_ of us would go to jail for concealing a known public hazard. That’s five years _minimum_.”

“Then I’ll take the fall for it.” Vriska says. Kanaya looks at her sister wide-eyed but the ceruleanblood continues, “If…in case one of us is discovered, the parent always covers for the child. Mindfang is gone and Mom has another kid so…” Vriska drums her fingers on the table, weighing her odds. “It’s me. I’ll tell the cops I made everyone go along with it. That way, only _one_ of us goes to jail.”

“Vriska--” you say.

“It’s already been decided!” Vriska says, before you can talk her out of the choice. “Mom told me just like Grandma Mindfang told her! It…its just the way things have to be.”

There’s finality in the way she says _Its just the way things have to be_ , as if she was given an edict from heaven. Kanaya’s eyes are still wide, shocked—as if she had been excluded from this bit of family history.

Then the jadeblood shakes off her surprise and her expression returns to negotiating neutrality. “It won’t come to that,” Kanaya insists, “which is why we’re having this conversation while Arthat is still young.”

“Sounds like you’ve made a lot of decisions on your part without talking to us,” Eridan says, “but you still haven’t told us what _you_ want. Out of everyone here, Karkat is the only one with a stable living situation.” He looks at Vriska, “Where _are_ you living now?”

Vriska growls but Kanaya leans forward, staring Eridan on.

“You’re forgetting about me.” Kanaya says.

“You?” Eridan asks.

“ _You_?” you repeat. You had thought Vriska would argue for Aranea having complete custody or sending Arthat to boarding school. You had never considered Kanaya putting her hat in the custody ring. “Why would _you_ want to raise Arthat? I thought you hated kids.”

“Just because I’m not interested in pregnancy doesn’t mean I hate children.” Kanaya says and sounds exasperated, as if she’s had this conversation a thousand times before. “The truth is that ceruleanbloods need their own space where they can retreat from the world. Aranea is the most sociable a ceruleanblood can get and even then, she still requires a personal space. Without it, things fall apart either through circumstance or self-sabotage.” She looks at Vriska, “It’s just…their way.”

Having hear that, a lot of things about ceruleanbloods make sense: Vriska’s preference for travel and distant relationships. Aranea neatly dividing her life between quadrants, career, and everything else so nothing interferes with the other. Arthat enjoying solitary reading rather than engaging in the louder child-friendly activities at SHEV. Such a demand for personal space couldn’t be made at your crowded trailer.

“Do you even have a free bedroom here?” you ask, “What about Porrim?”

“Porrim is planning on moving elsewhere with Rufioh. I give them a week.” Kanaya says, rolling her eyes. “I was hoping to avoid living alone but with Arthat around, I would feel more secure.”

“You’re not moving in with Fef?” Eridan asks.

“I…” Kanaya hesitates and then shrugs, “Neither of us feel the time is right.”

You have a feeling there’s a lot more to it than that but now isn’t the time to get into the state of Kanaya and Feferi’s relationship.

“And you think you can handle Arthat?” you ask.

“I’ve handled Vriska all my life, haven’t I?” Kanaya snorts. You nod, acknowledging that fact. Kanaya is the only troll you know who hasn’t come close to throttling her. “He’ll have his own room and there’s plenty of space for Snippy. In case of emergency, Aranea is right next door and you’re only minutes away. You can visit anytime you want and Arthat can visit you when he feels ready for it. My work hours are also not as long as yours, so Arthat can stay with you when I need to do overtime.”

“Sounds like you’ve already thought this out.” Eridan says.

“I…want to visit him too.” Vriska says, “I know I fucked up a bit—no, a _lot_ —but I don’t want to lose him. And I’ll send him gifts and money. Please…”

Vriska’s voice shakes, breaking off her desperation before she can debase herself further. _Please don’t separate me from my son,_ her teary eyes plead, and you hate that your heart aches for her. You try to stay angry—you _should_ stay angry—but the look on Vriska’s face is dumping sand on your rage.

“I don’t want to be separate from him either,” you say and the words are ashes in your mouth. “He’s our son. We both love him and want him…happy. And Arthat…”—you shove the words out now, feeling the ache in your chest—“…Arthat _can’t_ be happy with me. Not right now anyway.”

In a few years when Arthat is older maybe (and this is a huge ‘maybe’), he’ll be levelheaded enough for a friendlier relationship. You can be as nice as you want, but Arthat will never open his heart to you as it stands.

“When should we do this?” you ask.

You start laying out plans, although there’s little work to be done. Arthat will start spending more time around Kanaya, adjusting to the idea of living with her. Then the final move-in will be done at the end of August. You can only hope things go so smoothly.

“Now to break the news to Arthat.” You sigh.

“He’ll handle it.” Vriska says, “He’s a Serket.”

Suxxor and Arthat are still in the yard, but you hadn’t expected them to stray far. Unless Khanie or Nessie are involved, neither boy is particularly venturous. Arthat is sitting under the shade of a topiary clipped to resemble a Troll Venus of Willendorf, quietly reading _Les Misérables._ Suxxor is preoccupied jabbing at a fire ant mound with a stick. 

Vriska breaks the news to Arthat. Just like she said, he takes the news well…or at least you _think_ he does. His face becomes a mask and after two minutes of staring into space, he stands up and seizes Vriska’s hand.

“Je want to stay with Mere today!” Arthat says. He’s clinging to Vriska, informing you that this is not a question but a demand.

“Ask Karkat nicely.” Kanaya insists.

Arthat is being a rude little shit as usual, but there’s something especially childish about the petulant expression he makes following that request from Kanaya. Likely it helps that it _is_ a childish request.

“Its fine. I got a busy day anyway.” You sigh, “Just give me a call when he tires you out.”

Without another word, Eridan, Suxxor, and you leave the trailer. No words are exchanged as you drive toward the Captor home. Its smooth riding for once, as Shaker Hill Road has been repaved and still stinks of tar. (What the hell is even the point of paving road when everyone uses hovercars? You have no idea. You’re not a city planner.) When you arrive at the Captor-Pyrope-Ampora trailer, Suxxor runs out the car and inside the trailer with the speed of someone who has to use the bathroom or is eager to watch TV. Either way, Eridan doesn’t chase after him. He sits with you in the car, watching your face.

Your eyes sting and you blink rapidly, but no tears come. You’re just…tired. After all that stress—all those long nights of wondering what’s going to happen with your kid and how you’re going to manage it—it’s finally over and you have no idea how to feel about that. Eridan says nothing and slowly wraps his arm around you. You mimic the move and just stay close to him. This is…different. The touching and the silence takes his moment beyond friendship and brother and into something else. In this moment, in this little sliver of eternity, Eridan and you have crossed into completely platonic and pure affection.

You look Eridan in the eyes and see his pupils are dilated. Somewhere, in the part of your brain that is insectoid and instinctual, you understand and know its mutual and true.

Without words, Eridan leads you inside his home. You both end up curled up on top of Sollux, who is lying on his daybed and looking over emails on his iHusk. For once, the yellowblood doesn’t complain about the mix of heat and cold on him while he’s working on whatever.

It feels…right.


	4. spider and child

**== >Karkat: Be Vriska for a bit**

“Vous never finished it!” Arthat says.

You have no idea what time it is. The sky is turning the weird, off-brand shade of orange and yellow it always does at New Jack sunset due to air pollution hovering over the city. Only when you left for Nehetaly did you realize how strange the shades are. Not quite wrong but also not quite right.

You feel a migraine coming on. When was the last time you had a restful night of sleep? Days have started to blend together in a smear of bland meals and blander conversation. If it wasn’t for Terezi bursting into your life, you’d likely continue to drift through the weekly smear of life.

Kanaya gives you concerned glances but maintains distance, as she always has. She lets Arthat and you have the living room while the jadeblood returns to her bedroom. Your sister’s sewing machine echoes from the bedroom, whirring as it turns scraps into dresses or mending shirts in exchange for hydroponic vegetables. To counter the noise, you’d put the TV on a low murmur.

Arthat is curled next to you, watching you zone in and out in silent, loving awe. Snippy is by his feet, not interfering as long as his charge is content. Its peaceful, which is why Arthat speaks nearly gives you a heart attack as you’re startled back to reality.

“What is it, sweetie?” you ask.

“Great-grandmere’s story.” Arthat tugs expectantly on your shirt, as if that will jostle your memory. “Vous said vous would finish telling me when vous came back but…vous took so long.”

Arthat’s grey eyes quiver, poorly hiding his real fear of abandonment. Even with Snippy, he still clings to you and you honestly have no idea why. A lusus is supposed to supply a young troll with everything they need: comfort, food, and warmth. You’re the last troll on the planet Arthat should want the attention of.

“Oh yeah...” You smile because it’s the least you can do. “Where did we leave off?”

Arthat smiles and eagerly recalls where the story had ended prior to your trip. “Great-grandmere Mindfang had found the rustblood witch in the mountains, and she had to pass the witch’s eight trials. Great-grandmere had solved the riddles and found hidden treasures, but she had one more task to do.”

Arthat’s words flood the memory back to you. You remember that hot, sticky day back in the Squalor when the world just seemed to only contain you and Karkat. You were lying together on that bumpy, uncomfortable couch as you told him the story of your grandmother’s Fluorite Octet. For Arthat’s retelling, the story had to be further simplified. He’ll never need to know or understand Old Alternian terms like ‘malender’ or ‘hankyman’ when ‘peasant’ and ‘witch’ suffice.

You remember the cold touch of the magic eight ball in hand. Karkat had given you a whole bunch as a present, along with a book.

What was it called again? Your memory’s fogged over. You wish you had saved it before the Cherubs had chased you out with blood and guns.

No, don’t think about that. Think only on Arthat and the story he’ll one day tell his children. Your memory may be shot but you can always remember your grandmother’s words. Its as if they were carved into your skin.

“‘So, young Serket, you have passed my seven trials.’ said the rustblood witch.” You continue, “‘And yet the last shall be the most difficult. In these troubling times, I ache for the sound of my young queen’s voice and the sight of her beautiful face. Her queendom has been laid to waste and all memories of its utopian beauty stricken from the record by the Tyrian Tyrant, but my memory of her is as immaculate as her treasures. I know the gifts of the Serket are mighty. Summon the soul of my young queen--the Last East Beforan Mikado—and I shall reward you greatly!’”

The words make the picture all too real in your head—your grandmother as a 12-year-old (or roughly six sweeps) troll facing down an ancient rustblood. The rustblood wearing the gray rags of a peasant while your grandmother wore an aristocrat’s doublet and petticoat. How had the East Before refugee lived so long? How had she escaped its destruction? Those are questions only Aranea could know the answer to, with her historical knowledge.

Arthat’s eyes bulge out of his head as he drinks in your words. “And que is a ‘mikado’?” he asks.

“Oh. It’s an old, East Beforan word.” Shit, you had forgotten that’s _another_ dead language that needs translating. “It was their word for ‘queen’.” Or, at least you _think_ it is.

“So, did Great-grandmere Mindfang do it?” Arthat asks, “Did she channel the dead?”

“Of course not!” You laugh and tousle his hair. Since Arthat hates that, you’re the only one allowed to do it. “No one can channel the dead, so she used the next best thing--”

“A trick!” Arthat giggles.

You nod. “And the best kind of trick--”

“A _Serket_ trick!”

You laugh. You had played this game with Grandma Mindfang, when you were still young enough to enjoy her stories and she was lucid enough to remember all the little details. This is the part of the story you can’t share with Karkat or Kanaya. It’s just for you. Only between ceruleanbloods and Serkets.

“Did elle use light and shadow?” Arthat guesses.

“Close.” You say, “Your great-grandmother used her connections to help her. She asked a favor of her moirail, Executor Darkleer, for he was a blueblood of great engineering craft. His machines could fool even the most discerning eye for true life. Wanting to please his pale quadrant, Darkleer hewed a machine of iron and silver, with steel hair and unblinking bright red eyes. He was puppeteer while grandmother played the part of medium. Oh, there was smoke and flame and all the show-boating of a spirit returning to life, but it was all fakery.”

“Et le rustblood witch was fooled.” Arthat says with a nod.

“How could she _not_ be? It was the _perfect_ trick!” you laugh, “The old rustblood was so overjoyed that she surrendered her treasure to your great-grandmother: The Diadem of the Mikado. For years the rustblood witch hid it from the Condesce and treasure seekers. The superb crown was weighed down with diamonds, pearls, sapphire, emeralds, rubies, and in its the center was a giant hunk of blue fluorite. Your great-grandmother seized the heavy crown and fled from the rustblood’s hovel with Darkleer.

“As the two young trolls fled into the day, the old rustblood embraced the metal puppet. When the old witch realized she had been tricked, she howled in outrage. She screamed ‘‘Seven times you’ll have the lucky call, but the eighth shall undo it all!’ The wind shrieked and the sky bellowed with thunder, as if it would crack in half. And then the rustblood witch fell down _dead_!”

“Dead?” Arthat gasps.

You nod. “Dead as a doornail. Your great-grandmother and Darkleer moved through the day but the curse of the rustblood witch hung heavy on the lovely Diadem.” Arthat opens his mouth to ask a question but you hold up a finger. “But we _do not_ fear curses. We _do not_ fear death. We are _Serkets_ and it is our role to trick those that would seek our destruction. Thus, your great-grandmother was bold with her next actions.”

Arthat nods. “And then? What did great-grandmere do?”

“Your great-grandmother used the Diadem to build her legacy.” You chuckle, “She used the diamonds to buy her weapons and mighty sailing ships. She gave Darkleer the sapphires and he used the money to become a powerful banker. She gave the rubies to her kismesis Dualscar, with which he commissioned his mightiest weapon, Ahab’s Crosshairs. She gave the emeralds to the Grand Highblood to decorate his most treasured skull in his Mirthful Citadel.

“And to the Condesce, the Tyrian Tyrant Herself, she gave the pearls and the East Beforan circlet, saying ‘This is what remains of your enemy’. The Condesce had the circlet dipped in gold and that became _her_ crown. The Condesce dubbed Mindfang a royal privateer, the first land troll to become so. As for the blue fluorite, Grandmother kept it and had it carved into the Octet: eight magical dice that could flawlessly predict the future.”

“But where is it now?” Arthat asks, “And how did great-grandmere come to New Earth? And how did she meet great-grandpere? Was el a ceruleanblood too? Or even a tyrian?” He sounds hopeful about that last question.

You kiss him on the forehead. “That’s a story for another time.”

Arthat pouts but doesn’t wheedle for another story. He wraps his small arms around your waist, staying as close as possible. Outside, the sky has turned dark and the crickets are beginning their loud, nightly chorus. Children laugh as they run amok in the road before the streetlights come on and they head for home. There’s a faint whiff on marijuana on the wind and cars honk in the distance. Its not pleasant but its familiar. You almost wish you could stay here forever like this—just you and Arthat listening to the neighborhood.

“Mere…” Arthat’s voice is low. His eyes are half-lidded with the torpor that comes from being young and having an exciting, unusual day.

“Hm?”

“Do vous think je could be a prince?”

“A prince?”

“Et est just…there are no ceruleanblood princes. No ceruleanbloods is in charge of… _anything_.”

You hadn’t thought of that. In the modern day, on New Earth, true royalty is diluted at best. Fuchsiabloods are incredibly rare enough with only three on the entire planet (as far as you know). Aristocratic trolls have either married into or acquired their titles. Now that you’re considering it, ceruleanbloods are rarely in positions of power outside of non-trollian countries. Though, you’re not sure about trollian-focused countries either. (Not that you can blame them. The only reason Darkleer and Mindfang were moirails was due to his reported immunity to her mind-bending psionics.)

“You can be anything you want, baby.” You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing out the mess you’ve made. “You’ll always be my little prince.”

Arthat smiles sleepily and his eyes shut. He’s asleep for five minutes before Kanaya comes out her bedroom. She looks at the two of you and smiles her quaint little rainbow-drinker grin.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d take a picture of this moment.” Kanaya says, keeping her voice to a whisper.

“If this ends up on Trollbook, I’ll hunt you down.” You growl.

Kanaya sits on the opposite side of Arthat. “I’d _never_ violate the sanctity of our sisterhood with such a thing.” she says, “Plus, you hate having your pictures taken when you’re not sure that you’re fabulous enough.”

“Must be the jadeblood in me.” you snicker.

“Let’s hope.” Kanaya smiles down at Arthat. “It’s so easy to forget how… _young_ he is. He sounds and acts so grown up.”

“He’s just bossy like Karkat. He wants to grow up so fast and make his mark on the world.”

“Vriska…” Kanaya sighs and hands you a tissue from her pocket.

You take it and wonder when you started crying or why.

“This is stupid.” you mutter, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Instead of calling you an idiot, Kanaya moves close enough to hug you. Arthat grumbles in his sleep from being squeezed so closely between you but doesn’t wake up.

“No one does,” Kanaya says, “but we’ll figure it out together.”

“Mom hates me. I’m a miserable screw-up.” You blubber into her shoulder.

“She doesn’t hate you.” Kanaya sighs, patting you on the back, “Mom is dealing with a lot right now. She’s worried about you, but she’s scared if she smothers you, you’ll try to run from her again.”

You don’t have an answer for that, conflicted by your own feelings. You can’t see Kanaya’s face through your tears but her hand caresses the side of your face. From the touch of her lukewarm hand, relief spreads across your face. The headache that was oncoming starts to ease up its grip, letting you feel like you can breathe again. Your head is still spinning but this is…better.

“Go home. Get some rest. Talk to Mom when you feel up to it.” Kanaya says, “I’ll call Karkat to come get Arthat. Just take this time to take care of _you_.”

You scrub your still weeping eyes and slowly get up from the couch. You take care to make sure Arthat doesn’t wake up and he lies on the couch comfortably. Snippy crawls on top of Arthat and seems to be glaring at Kanaya until he’s certain he can trust her. Kanaya must understand this as she leaves the couch to go call Karkat.

You leave the trailer. The night air is pleasantly warm, and it feels like your head is floating but you’re…relieved. Calm, for once. Everything might be alright.

You still feel like you could sleep for the next hundred years.


	5. another spider and another child

The room has turned a warm shade of blue; a shade that doesn’t quite belong to morning or night due to the traces of remaining shadow. The birds aren’t screeching outside so night has yet to fully retreat. Your eyes aren’t completely open though and everything around you is a blur. As your senses slowly awaken, you feel a gentle touch on your forehead and distinct humming.

Your open your eyes fully and see your mother looking down on you. Her pupils are dilated in relaxation and instinctively you know she’s not a threat. You don’t understand why sometimes its acceptable for her to be close and other times the very idea of her being so close is nails on chalk to you. In this moment, you’re calm but irritated.

“What are you doing?” your throat is dry and your voice harsh and cracked. It seems walking around in New Jack’s damp evening in shorts coupled with stress was a bad call for your already overtaxed immune system.

“The door was unlocked for a change.” your mother replies.

It’s a tremendous effort on your part, but you sit up. Your muscles ache and your head and nose are clogged. Your mother doesn’t move; only watches you with vague interest as you slide away from her and wrap the blanket tighter around you.

“Arthat is going to live with Kanaya.” you say, “I…don’t know about the other one. Maybe they’ll be with Kanaya too.”

Your mother blinks slowly, taking in your words but doesn’t betray her body language. She shows no anger or even annoyance.

“If you both think that’s best.” She concedes.

You had expected more fire from her. _She_ was the one who made demands as to what you were going to do about custody.

“Oh,” you say, “…so…you _suddenly_ don’t care?”

Your mother exhales, letting out a sigh of fatigue that must be connected with work or your half-brother’s medical condition.

“I trust Kanaya,” Aranea says, “and, to an extent, I trust you. We both know you don’t work unless there’s a fire under your ass. If it were up to you, you would ignore all your problems until they disappeared.” She waves her hands to implicate a puff of smoke vanishing your crises away.

“How can you say that?” you scoff, “You always…look _down_ on me. You hate that I’m back here like, like--”

“A failure?” Your mother shakes her head. “Vriska…our family legacy is failure. The Serkets and Nitrams yield nothing but tragedy and imploded dreams. The true Marquise Spinneret Mindfang died in poverty and the majesty of the Summoner is unknown. They are but the faded mythos from a long since dead planet. I am only a history teacher, your mother is a nurse, and even with these modern skills we can only afford to live in the Ninth Ward. We have nothing to offer you, or your children, but our name and…our hopes.”

“What hope?” You want to scoff at her words but there’s… _something_ …in her eyes that holds back your skepticism. _Something_ in her voice that stems the despairing tide.

“The hope that you and your sister will do _better_.” Your mother’s eyes are clear and misty. She’s no longer pretending to be the distant schemer or the disapproving parent.

You don’t care for this honest display of emotion. It creates an ache in your chest that makes your throat and congestion intensify.

Despite your visible discomfort, your mother continues.

“Before your grandmother died, there was a something very peculiar she said.” Aranea says, “I’m not sure if she was lucid or just talking to her own ghosts and demons. I wasn’t even quite sure if she knew I was _there_ but…she said, ‘The gods have made life an ever-changing maze and we are its players. And in each generation, we rogues must move further into the labyrinth.’ I asked her ‘How does one win such a game?’”

“And what did she say?” you ask.

Your mother smiles bitterly. “‘You cannot win. You can only go further than the rest.’”

You mull over the words for what they’re worth, but can’t pull them away a meaning. Or any meaning that will help your current predicament. Your mother and you sit in silence, staring at each other and unsure what can be done next. Then your mother stands, but her limbs are relaxed and her expression is unsure.

“I may not agree with your decisions, but they are yours to make,” Aranea says, “and I can’t blame you for wanting something better than what you were given.” She gestures to the drafty room with its dirty windows and the lone air mattress. “As long as you keep attempting success, you will never disappoint the Serket name. In the end, the name is all we have left.”

Then your mother embraces you. You can’t remember the last time she held you like this. Still feeling sickened but still wanting her touch, you wrap your arms around her. Her body temperature is the same as yours—cold but not an unwelcomed temperature.

“Did Grandma Mindfang really say that?” you ask, in a near whisper.

You don’t have to look at your mother’s face to see her smile.

“You will never know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it for this part! I've abandoned my tumblr, but I'm active on furaffinity (bad-imagination) and twitter (writes_v). I also have a curiouscat (https://curiouscat.me/writes_v). I'm usually online and always eager to talk to people about Homestuck or fandoms or whatever, really. 
> 
> Take care and thank you for sticking with this. 
> 
> \- badAquatic, 7/17/19


End file.
